The stream (all workshops)
I was the child
that made you old,
I was also the girl
that couldn't be told
I was a rogue wave
and couldnt see 'now,'
that was I cherished
I'll never know how
when you went away
without word or a sigh,
I was forever bereft
we didn't get a goodbye
over time I've painted
my pictures in words,
I cried out my heart
in the differing verbs
I wish I could harness
and saddle a star
and fly to your side
but your so very far
When the moon grows to a fullness
of tunnel's beckoning silver end
I move through many things I grow
to feel sweet feather kisses
of breathing darkness on my skin,
and down between tall rows of corn
and pungent onion scent I kneel
to reach beneath wide prickly leaves
and test with touch the ripeness of
the treasure of my summer squash.
you should have been
explorers all of you
and
shown the whole wide world
to blind folks
like us
sitting at the desk
tapping keys only
whereas we should go about
the corners of eternity ….
seeking our final destination
in peace ….
but all human beings are quietlylazy ….
mostly like me.
The Valley of the Kings; sleeps
Below the moons blind eye
Within its mask of stars
Stone steps decend
Beneath the sandstorm
Amist the tide of centuries
Temple carvings beckon the night
And dance between
Twilights grasp
Swirling ocean of sand
Unfurls its innumeral golden veil
Sheathing and unsheathing
The Valley of the Kings
ABOUT TREES AND OTHER THINGS
The weakest branches
dried by a harsh summer sun
began to crack and fall
with a silent thud
onto the deep snow below
turned blue - gray
under Winter's moonlit night
surrendering with quiet grace
to inevitability.
thread twists
deep below the depths
waterlines
driven high by the cost
of business
like a bad hinge on a good door
Loved with the mirror
the way the light was thrown
down a damp hip
zoning
nicotine
and pockets full
of stripped out
simplicity
flaunting an edge
and patting down
the cover up
said you missed
a stair
and we wore
too many
years
with our monkeys
on our backs
that gait
hardwon
cornering
HIGH NOON
In the U. S. of A. (where the antelopes play)
A land-rush had given men hope;
With no money to pay, they had reason to stay
And put roots down, their families could cope.
But some of these men were alone, had to send
For a wife from the east, say, New York
One such was the male, in this terrible tale
(Asked for one who was used to hard work.)
Prince Charming is a gigolo
how many stories was he in?
Cinderella caught him
trying to wake Sleeping Beauty.
His defense: she's in a coma
c'mon, Cindy,
is that really such a sin?
She took her glass slipper
shoved it up his ass.
Told him where to put his millions
perhaps you think she's crass.
Snow White was a whore
living with seven old men.
Her legs opened and closed
like a revolving door.
Gods only know
where she's been.
a sky crumbles into dusk
violet and vermillion flames
the symphony of voice in the trees
the undulations of waves
there are birds cutting currents
and beacons offshore
beyond the island dream
the paper is succint
and free of the cellophane
the aroma wavers
in bitter streams
the first sharp fire
cupped to the dusk
and the crackle
ride an edge thats
been dulled with
ache forever
honed sharp
and hot deep
within a rib
Through the darkened woods
Black Riding Hood ran.
Crushing the dirt
beneath her combat boots
to Grandmother's house
fast as she can.
Grinning with fangs
curled under deviant lips,
the Bad Wolf leapt.
Stopped Black Riding Hood
cold in her tracks.
I see you're alone
you must be afraid.
Would you be offended
if I walked with you a ways?
Black Riding Hood
stared unimpressed.
Stop wasting my time
I have some place to be.
Beat it, Wolf
Go climb a tree.
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